Sunday, March 17, 2013

Where E’er We Go We Celebrate The Land That Makes Us Refugees …

There’s an old joke I remember hearing back in the
1980s, and it goes something like this. An American tourist is vacationing in
Dublin. One day, he decides to take a trip to Belfast, and as he’s walking
around sight-seeing, a masked gunman grabs him and pulls him into a dark alley.
The gunman presses his automatic weapon under the tourist’s chin and says, “Are
ya a Fenian, or a Prod?”

“There must be some mistake,” the tourist says.
“I’m not from around here. I’m from New York. In fact, I’m Jewish.”

“I know,” the gunman replies, “but are you a
Catholic Jew, or a Protestant Jew?”

So, yeah, we all tend to see the world through the
prism of our own experiences. What matters to me has to matter to you, right?

But you’ve got to indulge me just one more time, if
not for my sake, then for My Sainted Irish Mother™, who can no longer celebrate
with us.

So pour a little Jameson’s on the curb in her honor
and enjoy this little ditty on the Feast of St. Patrick. It also happens to be
one of the best songs ever written about the immigrant experience in America.